


Hands

by BlueRobinWrites



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:42:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27651512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueRobinWrites/pseuds/BlueRobinWrites
Summary: Cormoran has a bit of an obsession with Robin's hands.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	Hands

The first time they went to the cinema together they shared a bucket of popcorn and occasionally their hands would collide as they reached for a handful at the same time. 

The second time she’d grabbed his arm as something had jumped out on the screen, scaring her, and he’d covered her hand with his, leaving it there until she felt safe enough to reach for popcorn. 

The third time he rested his arm on the arm rest, and she leaned against his shoulder during one of the more moving moments of the movie. She’d left her head there, lifting it only to take a sip from her drink, before leaning it back against him, nibbling her popcorn one kernel at a time. She’d occasionally dropped kernels of popcorn into his open hand, teasing him with the tips of her fingers against his palm.

The fourth movie she’d linked her arm with his as they’d walked into the cinema, and again as they’d entered their theater and found their seats. Throughout the movie that night she’d cuddled against him, as much as possible with an arm rest between them, her hand creeping into his, fingers threading through his. 

By the fifth movie she’d discovered that the armrests lifted and she’d slid as close to him as she possibly could. His arm had come around her, rendering it completely useless for popcorn eating, but he didn’t mind, because it was great for Robin holding. 

They’d left the cinema that night with her arm through his and pressed against her side. And as they’d sat in the pub, he with a pint, her with wine, her hand had, inevitably, ended up in his. He’d traced each of her fingers with his. Smoothing his fingers down the sides of hers, pulling them gently, squeezing them softly, before lacing his between hers. 

Her hands fit into his perfectly, whether their fingers were interlaced or he just cradled her hand in his. 

It was always perfect. 

Soft. 

Warm. 

Cold when she’d forgotten her gloves. 

His favorite moments were when she slipped her arm through his and tucked her hand into his pocket with his. It felt illicit, secret, private, holding her hand inside the huge pocket of his massive coat. 

He didn’t think there would ever come a time that he wouldn’t enjoy holding her hand in his. No matter the circumstances. 

When he’d slipped on a patch of ice and busted his head open and she’d held his hand as the doctor had stitched him up in the A&E. 

When she’d received news that her family’s dog Rountree had passed and he’d found her crumpled on his bed, in his flat above the office, instead of at her desk for the meeting they’d been scheduled to take together. He’d held her in his lap, cradling her softly, soothing her as she’d wept with his hand clutched in hers as though him holding her hadn’t been enough, and she’d needed to hold him right back. 

Her hand was tiny compared to his. 

Unscarred.

Unmarred. 

None of the knuckles swollen from injuries or scarred from boxing.

The skin of her palm was smooth, lined delicately, and more than once he’d traced those lines, wondering which was her marriage line and which was her life and if they’d join with his someday in the future, despite the fact that he didn’t really believe in those things.. 

Her hands healed him in ways he hadn’t realized were possible. 

Rubbing his hamstring when he inevitably buggered his leg, or both of them kneading his back with a deceptive strength after a long day hunched over their desks. 

Gripping his thigh, arse, or back as he moved against her, her nails leaving marks he loved feeling as the water of the shower they’d take together afterward stung them. 

The way she’d gently lather soap across his back, drawing pictures, words, and patterns in it before he turned to capture her lips with his. 

He never tired of feeling her hands. 

Watching her hands.

Kissing her hands.

Holding her hands. 

In the list of things he loved about Robin, her hands were slightly below her compassion and kindness, and just above her curves and angles and softer places. 

In her hands were where he felt most comforted. 

Most safe. 

Most loved. 


End file.
